have her to myself I ask, “Have you ever been to the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art?”
“Yes,” she answers.
I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t, so I ask, “What do you think of it?”
“I don’t know much about it, and I’ve only been there twice,” Ms. Montero says.
“Well?” I prod, repeating, “What do you think of it?”
She shrugs, then says, “I think their prices are too high. They do carry some marvelous pieces. Once in a while they handle truly valuable paintings. I remember reading about their sale of a John Constable, and last year they were agents in the purchase of a Camille Pissarro.”
“Wow! I’m impressed.”
“But they aren’t consistent. They occasionally feature what I’d call second-rate artists at first-rate prices.” She smiles at me teasingly. “Are you thinking of buying something by one of the old masters?”
“Not yet,” I answer, and smile in return. “I’m asking because I met the owner of the gallery.”
“Alanna Chase,” Ms. Montero says.
“Right.”
I wait for Ms. Montero to continue, but she doesn’t. “Keep up the good work,” she tells me, and moves on to take a look at Jonathan’s sketchpad.
Jonathan. Wonderful, handsome Jonathan, who invited me to go with him to the Museum of Fine Arts tomorrow evening. Jonathan makes me completely forget Alanna Chase. I sneak a look fromthe corners of my eyes and admire the way his profile is backlighted by the sun-soaked windows. I pull out my notebook and make a quick sketch of Jonathan.
At our lockers Lindy reminds me that I promised to go to the office of Child Advocates with her. “Tomorrow after school,” she says. “I’ve got an appointment. Okay?”
“Sure,” I tell her. Tomorrow’s too far away to think about. My mind is on my upcoming visit with Douglas Merson.
At the door of Riverview Hospital’s room 655, a tall, muscular guy with a thick, hairy neck rises from a wooden chair, blocking my way. For a moment all I can see is his orange-brown checked suit and mustard yellow tie. He’s got the right outfit for a bodyguard. That outfit would scare away anyone.
“I’m Kristi Evans,” I tell him. “Dr. Lynd said it was all right for me to visit Mr. Merson. He said he’d tell you.”
“Go on in,” the bodyguard answers. His eyes are bored as he looks away from me, searching the hall. I get the feeling that he quickly loses interest in anyone who doesn’t seem to be a threat.
I stop in the open doorway. “What’s
your
name?” I ask.
“Gurtz,” he says.
“Gurtz? That’s all … Gurtz?”
“Gurtz,” he repeats.
“Thanks, Gurtz,” I answer. First name? Lastname? What difference does it make? If I had a bodyguard, I’d hate to have someone like Gurtz hanging around.
Gurtz resumes his position in the hallway, and I close the door.
Mr. Merson is propped up in bed. He watches me walk toward him. I can see the pleasure in his eyes.
“You’re sitting up. That’s great,” I tell him. “You’ll be going home soon.”
He picks up a pad of paper and a pencil. He writes “tomorrow” and holds it up so I can see it.
“So soon? But won’t you need a nurse? Someone to change your bandages and take care of you?”
Quickly Mr. Merson writes, “I’ll have a private nurse.”
“Oh, of course,” I say. I should have known. Mr. Merson probably has enough money to hire a whole medical staff.
He motions toward the armchair next to his bed, so I sit down. On the small table next to me is a framed photograph of a guy who looks like he’s a senior in high school. He’s thin, with pale blond hair, and there’s just a touch of a smile on his lips.
Mr. Merson writes, “My son, Roger. He was eighteen at the time. It’s the last photograph I have of him.”
“I’m sorry about Roger,” I say.
He nods. For a few moments he stares down at his hands. Then he turns to a new page in his notepad and writes, “Roger had great promise. He was studying at the University
“Yes,” she answers.
I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t, so I ask, “What do you think of it?”
“I don’t know much about it, and I’ve only been there twice,” Ms. Montero says.
“Well?” I prod, repeating, “What do you think of it?”
She shrugs, then says, “I think their prices are too high. They do carry some marvelous pieces. Once in a while they handle truly valuable paintings. I remember reading about their sale of a John Constable, and last year they were agents in the purchase of a Camille Pissarro.”
“Wow! I’m impressed.”
“But they aren’t consistent. They occasionally feature what I’d call second-rate artists at first-rate prices.” She smiles at me teasingly. “Are you thinking of buying something by one of the old masters?”
“Not yet,” I answer, and smile in return. “I’m asking because I met the owner of the gallery.”
“Alanna Chase,” Ms. Montero says.
“Right.”
I wait for Ms. Montero to continue, but she doesn’t. “Keep up the good work,” she tells me, and moves on to take a look at Jonathan’s sketchpad.
Jonathan. Wonderful, handsome Jonathan, who invited me to go with him to the Museum of Fine Arts tomorrow evening. Jonathan makes me completely forget Alanna Chase. I sneak a look fromthe corners of my eyes and admire the way his profile is backlighted by the sun-soaked windows. I pull out my notebook and make a quick sketch of Jonathan.
At our lockers Lindy reminds me that I promised to go to the office of Child Advocates with her. “Tomorrow after school,” she says. “I’ve got an appointment. Okay?”
“Sure,” I tell her. Tomorrow’s too far away to think about. My mind is on my upcoming visit with Douglas Merson.
At the door of Riverview Hospital’s room 655, a tall, muscular guy with a thick, hairy neck rises from a wooden chair, blocking my way. For a moment all I can see is his orange-brown checked suit and mustard yellow tie. He’s got the right outfit for a bodyguard. That outfit would scare away anyone.
“I’m Kristi Evans,” I tell him. “Dr. Lynd said it was all right for me to visit Mr. Merson. He said he’d tell you.”
“Go on in,” the bodyguard answers. His eyes are bored as he looks away from me, searching the hall. I get the feeling that he quickly loses interest in anyone who doesn’t seem to be a threat.
I stop in the open doorway. “What’s
your
name?” I ask.
“Gurtz,” he says.
“Gurtz? That’s all … Gurtz?”
“Gurtz,” he repeats.
“Thanks, Gurtz,” I answer. First name? Lastname? What difference does it make? If I had a bodyguard, I’d hate to have someone like Gurtz hanging around.
Gurtz resumes his position in the hallway, and I close the door.
Mr. Merson is propped up in bed. He watches me walk toward him. I can see the pleasure in his eyes.
“You’re sitting up. That’s great,” I tell him. “You’ll be going home soon.”
He picks up a pad of paper and a pencil. He writes “tomorrow” and holds it up so I can see it.
“So soon? But won’t you need a nurse? Someone to change your bandages and take care of you?”
Quickly Mr. Merson writes, “I’ll have a private nurse.”
“Oh, of course,” I say. I should have known. Mr. Merson probably has enough money to hire a whole medical staff.
He motions toward the armchair next to his bed, so I sit down. On the small table next to me is a framed photograph of a guy who looks like he’s a senior in high school. He’s thin, with pale blond hair, and there’s just a touch of a smile on his lips.
Mr. Merson writes, “My son, Roger. He was eighteen at the time. It’s the last photograph I have of him.”
“I’m sorry about Roger,” I say.
He nods. For a few moments he stares down at his hands. Then he turns to a new page in his notepad and writes, “Roger had great promise. He was studying at the University
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